


Stay Warm

by thehelpfulfrog



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehelpfulfrog/pseuds/thehelpfulfrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the epic showdown against the Meta, the Blood Gulch crew are left in the uncomfortable situation of being completely stranded on an uninhabited ice planet. In winter. At night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Warm

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing for this fandom, so leave your criticism. Also more prompts, because I would love to write more Red vs. Blue things for you.

Sidewinder is still really fucking cold, in the words of their lost friend; and as the heat from their shared near-death encounter begins to wear off, it becomes increasingly apparent that their armor isn’t calibrated for these temperatures. The recovery beacon’s been activated for hours - or so they assume, since no one really understands how those fancy freelancer gadgets work and Wash isn’t talking - but as the last rays of sunlight fade to be replaced by bitter cold, the shaken-up survivors eventually reach a wordless conclusion they have all hoped to avoid: that maybe no one would be coming.

“Maybe no one’s coming,” pipes up Grif, not so wordlessly, from his position slumped against the wall on the hard, metallic floor. Since the group took shelter from the approaching nightfall in the abandoned blue base, they’d attempted to scavenge for any rations or find a means of restoring power, only to find the place stripped bare and the majority of its rooms sealed off. Worried pacing and strategizing ensued, and with all increasingly ridiculous plans of escape and/or rescue eventually ruled out, the soldiers had taken to sitting dejectedly in various corners of the outpost’s main hall and staring off into space. The dark, low-ceilinged room has a sullen feel, and the six had been alone in their increasingly troubled thoughts for what seemed like hours until Grif broke the heavy silence.

“Don’t start talkin’ nonsense, Grif,” snaps Sarge, who is seated at a small table in the center of the room with his back to the private. “That’s just the cold gettin’ to ya.” Truthfully it’s getting to everyone. The growing chill seems to seep into the soldiers’ very bones, and that combined with the mounting sense of dread makes their barely restrained tempers permeable. “The Meta’s thingamabob transmitted that recovery whatsit, which means _someone’ll_ show up anytime now.”

“C’mon, Sarge,” sighs Grif, raising his head. “Wash  _is_ the only recovery unit. There’s no one else alive to receive it.”

All heads in the room turn to Wash, and not without several accusatory glances. The freelancer in question hasn’t moved since entering the base, when he’d simply slid down to the floor in the far corner of the hall and stayed there, staring at the wall beside him, emotions imperceptible.  They haven’t been able to glean any information from him as to the state of the recovery beacon, as frankly, no one’s been composed enough to initiate conversation with the man who’d so willingly sold them all out for his own freedom. Upon entering the base and seeing Wash, Tucker had rolled his eyes and stormed away furiously, tearing off his helmet, and Caboose had followed behind with his head down, sad and subdued. The Reds found it best not to get involved, as it isn’t  _their_  teammate’s body that’s lying outside in the snow.

Sarge sighs and shifts around in his seat. “Guess I’ll try command again,” he mutters, mostly to himself, as he flicks a switch on his wrist. “Come in command, come in. This is Blood Gulch - I mean, this is Valhalla outpost – well, I guess it’s just Red Team. We’re at Sidewinder outpost B, requesting assistance. Come in command…” The familiar beeps and whistles emanating from the commanding officer’s helmet let the others know that their superiors are still entirely unresponsive.

As Sarge repeats his message, Grif hears a shifting movement to his right and turns to see Simmons taking a seat next to him. The other soldier removes his helmet and gives a forced smile. “Hey,” he offers quietly.

Even this small attempt by his teammate to stay positive has Grif grinning like an idiot, and he turns quickly to look over at Wash, still perfectly silent and unmoving on the far side of the room. “What do you think ‘ll happen to him?” he asks gently, nodding in the direction of the freelancer.

“I suppose he’ll go back to prison,” Simmons states matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing for it.” The maroon soldier shrugs and adjusts his position and Grif is trying not to be hyper-aware of how close they are. He notices Sarge rising from his seat and leaving the room, probably attempting to get a better radio signal from elsewhere.

“It’s a shame though,” Grif sighs, looking down at the floor. “He was a good guy, really.”

“You know, one who tried to kill us,” says Simmons with another half-smile. “Still, I guess he was just being loyal. Times like these, all you have is your team.”

There’s an unfamiliar warmth in his voice and Grif looks up, eyes wide in shock because that couldn’t possibly have been directed at  _him_ , not when they were supposed to hate each other and Simmons is smiling at him and it’s suddenly a lot less cold and  _wow_ Simmons’ eyes are green –

Grif’s thoughts are stopped from spiraling utterly out of control with the hiss of a door opening. The two soldiers jump and turn their heads in unison to see Tucker striding purposefully into the room, narrowed eyes set on Wash.  “What’s he doing?” whispers Simmons, and Grif unconsciously gets up, not sure what  _he’s_  doing himself or how he’s going to stop a confrontation if it happens.

Tucker stops dead in front of the freelancer and crosses his arms, his face unreadable. Wash looks up, utterly defeated and clearly expecting some threat or accusation from the blue soldier, and Grif tenses himself to leap in and stop the inevitable fight.

The two exchange a few words in low voices that Grif can’t make out from this distance, and then Tucker says something that makes Wash’s eyes widen and mouth fall open. The freelancer nods slowly, his face a bizarre mix between shell-shocked and relieved. Before Grif has time to question it, Tucker pulls Wash to his feet and they’re leaving the room together, helmets tucked under their elbows, talking as if they’ve been on the front lines together for years.

Several minutes pass after the doors close behind them and Grif finally realizes that he’d temporarily forgotten how to move. “Uh… what was  _that_?” calls a bewildered voice from behind him, and the orange soldier grins widely, suddenly inexplicably happy.

“Hard to tell,” he replies, turning to his teammate, “but I think blue team just got a new recruit.”

Grif beams and Simmons gapes and neither of them break eye contact for a long moment, and then it’s Simmons’ turn to redden and turn away. “Fucking cold,” he mumbles, shifting awkwardly and pulling his limbs closer to his chest.

“Oh, c’mere you big baby,” says Grif gleefully as he plops down and puts and arm around Simmons’ shoulder, pulling him close.

The consequences of this action abruptly dawn on him like the weight of a 3-ton Warthog to the chest, but it’s far too late to change his mind now because whatever barriers had previously existed between them have just been destroyed with a dramatic shattering of glass and Simmons is sighing deeply and nestling his head into the crook of Grif’s neck and his hair is soft and smells like soap and sweat and Grif decides that he doesn’t care; he just doesn’t fucking care that he would have rejected this situation entirely ten whole seconds ago because the old version of him can go fuck himself.

They spend who-knows-how-long sharing body heat in uninterrupted silence until the blaring, megaphone-enhanced voice of a UNSC commander tells them loudly to come outside with their hands in the air, for which they both pretend to be grateful.


End file.
